


Every Little Thing You Do

by orphan_account



Series: Sherstrade Domesticity [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Domesticity, Fluff, Idiosyncrasies, Love, M/M, PWP, Quirks, Sweet, Traits, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:45:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9565706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Greg loves a tired Sherlock - then again, he loves a lot of things about the thin-framed man he gets to call his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. Apologies for blatant typos that I have missed.

_CaLL m3._

Greg’s eyes fell immediately to the fridge as he stepped into the kitchen, finally home from a double shift, and frowned at the magnets arranged into a brief message from Sherlock. He dumped his coat and car keys onto the breakfast bar, beside the cereal bowl and coffee mug he’d left there that morning - and the coffee mug still half filled with now ice cold black coffee that Sherlock had heartlessly abandoned. He kept his eyes on the fridge, still finding Sherlock’s playful penchant for leaving him correspondence like this amusing, as he scrolled through his phone and called Sherlock. He held the handset to his ear, smiling to himself, and waited for Sherlock’s voice to flow with it’s usual huskiness into his brain. 

‘ _I’m sorry I cannot take your call at the moment, but please leave me a brief message and I’ll endeavour to call you back. Alternatively, divert your conversation to my text messages. Thank you._ ’ 

Greg hadn’t heard Sherlock’s voice mail message in a very long time and it made him smile - he sounded so young, his voice somehow less deep, less raspy - and frown at the same time. Why was he not answering his phone? Despite the slight niggle of annoyance, he cut the call and followed the recordings instructions in drafting a quick message to Sherlock via text. _You asked me to call. Everything alright? Call me._ He slipped his phone into the pocket of his trousers and gathered the dishes from the breakfast bar and walked with them across the small kitchen to leave them in the sink, not surprised that yesterday's dishes were still in there, too, in much the same state. He abandoned the idea of actually washing them in favour of acquiring a bottle of beer from the fridge and hauling himself up on the sofa in the lounge. He was sure the Chelsea match was on tonight… 

Comfortable on the sofa with his beer in one hand and the television controls in the other, Greg tipped his shoes off with his toes and rested his feet on the drinks table before him. With no sign of football, he opted for the final ten minutes of Eastenders and dropped the controls to the seat cushion beside him. He took a swig from the cold beer and savored it, belching almost immediately after he swallowed and didn’t even excuse himself. He kept his eyes on the TV, not taking anything in, and wondered how long Sharon had been back in it. He jumped a moment later when his phone vibrated against his thigh and began ringing loudly in his pocket. He sat forwards and placed his bottle onto the table then worked his phone free from his pocket and answered the call. 

‘Hi - I was beginning to think you’d done a bunk,’ he smirked into the handset. 

‘Of course not,’ Sherlock said and Greg could hear the smile on his lips. ‘I’m at Barts - that text you sent me this morning, about going back over the results from the Greek Street hooker?’ 

‘How nice that you’re calling her that,’ Greg frowned and shook his head. He rubbed his free hand across his tired face. ‘Anyway, yeah, what about it?’

‘I ran the samples again, twice - there’s a DNA match. Whoever did her in was related to her - a sibling by all accounts.’ Sherlock slurred quietly into the phone and Greg felt warmth and affection flood his heart. A slurring Sherlock was a tired Sherlock, and a tired Sherlock was pliable and sexy in a ‘too sleepy to say no’ kind of way. 

‘A sibling,’ Greg shook his head, dragging his hand down from his face and yawned as it hit his thigh. ‘Well,’ he said as he regained composure, ‘That’s just disgusting. But thank you - print the report and bring it home, or e-mail it across to my Yard address and I’ll access it first thing. Unless you just want to patch it to Anderson…’ Greg pulled a cringing expression as he spoke his last words, bracing himself for the torrent of abuse he expected Sherlock to hurl down the phone at him. 

As expected, Sherlock cursed. ‘Not a fucking chance,’ he spat halfheartedly. ‘I’ll mail it to your address, you can get it tomorrow. I’m just going to finish up here and I’ll get a cab.’ 

‘I can come for you,’ Greg said, straightening in preparation to stand, ‘I’ve had, like, two mouthfuls of beer…’ 

‘No, stay home,’ Sherlock told him lightly, ‘Gives me the chance to actually come home _to_ you.’ 

Greg smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling in the corners. ‘I suppose it does. So, I’ll see you in a little while then, Kid?’ 

‘Half an hour…’ Sherlock confirmed. 

Greg waited, expecting a goodbye, or _I love you_ , or something to tumble from Sherlock’s lips but instead he was met by the silence of the call ending. He wasn’t offended at all, but a little surprised that the younger man hadn’t even acknowledged a simple goodbye. 

 

True to his word, almost to the minute, Greg turned his head to look over his shoulder to the hallway door as he heard Sherlock’s key turning and the heavy front door push open before slamming shut again. He smiled as the hallway door opened slowly and it broadened exponentially as Sherlock stepped through it. He looked exhausted, Greg noted, but beneath his open coat he was wearing that pale blue button-down shirt that Greg loved and his curls were perfectly spiralling on his forehead. He looked every inch an attractive young twenty-something - every inch the person he actually was, Greg reminded himself - and every now and again Greg liked to just look and remember that he belonged to him, completely. 

Greg drew his feet from the table and stood up with a groan, his body protesting with fatigue. He watched Sherlock draw off his coat and caught it as he threw it towards him. Greg laid it over the back of the sofa and then opened out his arms to the slim man in front of him. Sherlock folded himself into the offered embrace without a moment's hesitation, cupping one hand behind Greg’s head and the other around his shoulders as Greg’s arms linked around Sherlock’s slim hips. Their mouths melded immediately, Greg’s head tilting right whilst Sherlock’s instinctively veered left. In synch and perfectly timed, their lips parted and tongues moved in a slow and loving kiss that was passionate and heartfelt without once turning straight towards sexual. 

Sherlock drew his hand from behind Greg’s head and rested it on his shoulder, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against Greg’s. They looked into one another’s eyes for a moment, too close to see anything of detail but the other’s pupils. Then Sherlock straightened, and tightened his arms around Greg for a warm hug. 

‘I missed you today,’ Greg whispered into the nape of Sherlock’s neck. 

‘Hmm,’ Sherlock hummed, closing his eyes and giving himself up to the comfort of _home_ that came with the smell of Greg - the skin, the musk, the cigarette smoke, the washing powder and the coffee, mingling with the smell of London. ‘Missed you, too.’ 

Greg dropped one hand and patted Sherlock’s left buttock. ‘Sit down,’ he said, keeping one hand on Sherlock’s back. ‘Do you want a coffee?’ 

Sherlock crinkled his nose and shook his head slightly, ‘Tea?’ 

Greg smiled, ‘Tea it is. What about dinner, are you hungry? I can order something if you’re not on for waiting while I cook something.’ 

Sherlock flopped into the sofa while Greg hovered behind, about to head toward the kitchen in the far corner of the open plan living space. ‘No, I’m not hungry. Molly force-fed me Quavers about an hour ago.’ 

Greg chuckled, ‘Force-fed?’ 

Sherlock nodded, eyes wide in earnest, ‘Said if I didn’t eat them, she’d kick me out of the lab.’ He said, semi-serious, as he made himself comfortable on the couch. 

‘You’ve got to admire that girl’s tenacity.’ Greg laughed deep in his throat. He reached for the kettle and flicked the on switch down. ‘Plain tea or one of those weird ones you like?’ 

‘Earl Grey is fine,’ Sherlock replied on a yawn. 

Greg leaned against the breakfast bar as he waited on the kettle and smiled to himself as he watched Sherlock. Able to only really make out the ear closest to him in detail, he watched Sherlock’s right hand snake in and out of his hair, his fingers attracted to a particular curl that he lost every now and again and then, when they found it, twisted it and pulled it before allowing it to spring back against his head. His smiled became a laugh in an exhale through his nose as he watched Sherlock repeat the action three times before the kettle had boiled. So much about the man he loved was innocent and small, young like he was but _even younger_ , childlike in many ways until he opened his mouth and showed the world just how mature and intelligent he truly was. But it was the idiosyncrasies that Greg loved - the hair twirling, the way Sherlock crinkled his nose in disgust, the way he rolled his blue eyes, the chewed his bottom lip when he thought, the way he laughed when Greg farted… 

He rejoined Sherlock in the lounge and placed his tea on the drinks table in front of them, and sat down beside Sherlock on the sofa. Instinctively, his hand reached out and lay softly on Sherlock’s thigh. His thumb moved back and forth, stroking Sherlock affectionately. ‘We can blow tomorrow evening off if you’re tired, you know,’ he said, looking at Sherlock in the profile as the younger man watched the TV without really knowing what was happening, or what the programme even was. 

Sherlock turned his head slowly and met Greg’s eyes, ‘No, of course not, I’ll be going to bed tonight, Gregory, that usually sorts out sleepiness.’ He winked comically and Greg found himself smiling again. 

‘Alright, smart-arse.’ Greg turned the hand stroking against Sherlock’s leg into the one _slapping_ his leg as he swiped at him. ‘I just meant that Sally Donovan’s birthday drinks aren’t exactly something you’re chomping at the bit to go to, so if you don’t want to go we don’t have to.’ 

Sherlock frowned and shook his head, ‘It’s fine. She’s your friend and I’ll be polite. Besides,’ Sherlock said, leaning forwards to retrieve his tea. He sat back again, holding the cup delicately. ‘You already bought her gift; I sort of want to see her face when she realises that I do listen when she babbles on about _bullshit_.’

Greg smirked, ‘She’ll probably faint when I tell her that ballet tickets were your idea.’ He returned his thumb to its previous ministrations. 

‘Exactly,’ Sherlock said after a heavy swallow of his tea that could just as easily have become a coughing fit, going by his expression. ‘I’m hardly going to want to miss watching that.’ 

Greg laughed despite himself. ‘You’re not, no.’ He stilled his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. ‘C’mon, let’s go to bed. TV’s shite anyway.’ He got to his feet and waited for Sherlock to do the same. 

‘You head in - I need to go first, before the sofa gets wet.’ Sherlock made a face and Greg smiled. 

Another one for the list of idiosyncratic things he loved about Sherlock. The man would swear like a sailor when provoked, or when he thought that it was contextual, but for some reason he never said ‘toilet’, or ‘pee’, or any other synonym for urinating - it was always ‘go’. Greg wasn’t sure why - if Sherlock wanted a blow job, he demanded it; he was comfortable being nude; he belched and farted and didn’t bat an eyelid - but anyone knowing that he needed a wee seemed to embarrass the man beyond comprehension. 

He smiled and rolled his eyes, ‘Fine, go,’ he nodded his head toward the doorway. ‘I’ll warm the bed up for you.’ He bent down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. ‘I’m glad you’re home,’ he said softly as he straightened up again. 

Sherlock smiled up at him, blue eyes shining in the lamplight. ‘Me too.’


End file.
